


A Moment in Fugue

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s01e02 Fugue, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 13:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14057577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: Just some Morse internalization at the end of fugue...





	A Moment in Fugue

“Ah, bugger..”

 Morse had been staring at his feet, lost in the ebb and flow of adrenaline now that it was all over. He was lost in the reality of what Mason Gull had said.

  _I know who you couldn’t save, Morse!_

 His wide blue eyes darted to Thursday as CS Bright inquired to the trouble. A broken pipe, but it was more than that. He could see the tremor in the older man’s hands, something that carried through him as they stood on the roof, still on the edge of danger but nothing compared to the death that they both had stared square in the eye. This was a Thursday that Morse had never seen before, a new facet to his normally steadfast governor. He was shaken. Shocked. With all his experience and grit, he stood here with tremulous hands as he turned over the pieces of his pipe.

  _A spare.._

 Bright was his usual evenly condescending self and Morse could barely accept thanks or acknowledgment for what he’d done, not that he’d want to.  All he could think was that it was Thursday up here, the solitary person who had made him feel welcome since his return to Oxford. All he could think, as he’d run at breakneck speed and awkwardly shimmied across roof ledges, was that this was all his own fault.

 He was too clever.

  _Keep your head down_ , Thursday had told him, but had he?

 Opera, anagrams, puzzles and clues. The revenge scheme had twisted upon Morse’s involvement to be nearly tailor made for him.

 And he’d almost lost Thursday.

 Anger welled behind his eyes as Bright talked of general duties once again and Morse didn’t know whether to scream to the sky with frustration or for thanks. At least on general duties he couldn’t draw attention to himself. At least he wouldn’t rile anyone up, or worse, gain some psychopath’s attention. But his pride screamed back. He was better than this.

 Thursday looked at Morse for a long moment, a breath, and Morse stared back with as open an expression as the older man had ever been granted. His DC had lost his walls in that moment, swept out with the last of his adrenaline, worn down by exhaustion and the anxious pangs of reality.

 “How do you do it?” Morse nearly gasped it as Thursday turned to go book in Gull. Maybe he needed him to stay a moment longer, just an extra second to further solidify his survival and his presence. Just a second more to lend Morse that steady hand that he was seeking. Some calm in this storm. Thursday, a rock he could cling to, “Leave it at the front door?”

 “Cause I have to,” Thursday shook his head and his voice was earnest. Morse watched him needily, desperate for any shred of wisdom the other could offer. Could he really do this? Perhaps it wasn’t the world at all… Perhaps it was Morse’s own difficulties that stood in his way. His own worst enemy.

 “A case like this will tear the heart out of a man,” His governor's eyes swept out over the spires and Morse very acutely began to notice where they were. The lovely view clashed so distinctly with the growing sick feeling in his gut over this case and where he stood in it. Oxford had been something he’d run from for so long and just as he’d felt like he was finding a place here, it seemed menacing and overwhelming once again.

 “Find something worth defending,” Thursday was trying in the best way he could to get through to his constable, to find a way to help.

  _Something worth defending_ , “I thought I had.. something.”

 "Music?” There was no judgement in the older man’s tone, but perhaps some disbelief that it could be so simple.

 How could Morse explain that it was something else? A sofa for weary bones. A warm jacket. A family meal. Stray bits of surprising knowledge that made him smile. The steady predictability of Cheese and Pickle.

He shrugged and nodded then and the frustration in his tear-burned eyes now turned to sadness that he couldn’t find the words to share. Feelings weren’t their forte. He didn’t have the ability to impart his appreciation or to tell this man what he wanted to say. Genuine thanks stuck in his throat and Morse simply agreed. There was only his clear pleading eyes, with an unspoken wish that Thursday could simply _understand_..

  _Music._ Music would do well enough.

 “Go home. Put your best record on loud as it’ll play,” Thursday’s voice gained a gravity of it’s own, a low pleading growl that Morse knew he’d obey. He trusted it to be the truth, trusted the older man to lead him true.

 “And with every note you remember that’s something the darkness couldn’t take from you.”

 And then he was gone and Morse’s eyes swam with the threat of tears, the reality that even the swells of his favorite opera couldn’t reassure him this time. He couldn’t help but think that tonight he’d much prefer a stout to build him up, and to be sandwiched on a sofa between bickering siblings. To be fussed on about how he needed to eat or get a wink of sleep. Even sleeping on a sofa would be preferred to a few fingers of scotch and the echoing emptiness of his room.

 Gull had threatened the only things he cared about, corrupted his passions, and threatened the only safety he’d known for years.

 But he'd do it. After he hauled himself down from the roof and found his way home. As he stripped out of his shirt with twinges of pain from his aggravated stab wound, he’d do as his governor asked. He’d pick a record, any would do, and he’d play it loud as he could. He’d play it until he couldn’t think past it. He’d play it until it drove everything from his mind. He’d sit and drink and bask in it until he and the music were one and the same.

 And in the morning he’d live in the hungover fog of it, the notes still embedded in his mind on endless loop, the tempo dictating his slouching steps or his fingers on the keys to his typewriter, and he’d drown everything else away. The fear would ebb, or at the very least dull, and if his governor willed it he’d pick him up in the morning.

Perhaps he could absorb just a few more sacred moments of peace in the entryway of the Thursday’s house. He’d steadfastly refuse to call Mrs. Thursday Win as she fussed him to eat something and Sam would test his knowledge of last night’s scores only to scoff at his failings. Thursday would be so much a father that Morse couldn’t even look at them all straight on, but still feel privileged to see more of this man than others did. And maybe, like the music, he could be thankful that some things hadn’t been taken from him.

_Something the darkness couldn’t touch_.

And maybe he’d never find the words to say or the thanks to give. Maybe all he would have were small efforts to express his gratitude but Morse would do his best to savor what he’d found, and work his best to payback kindness in all the ways he could.

One day soon Thursday would find a box on his desk with a new pipe. Nothing expensive, nothing flashy, and just a simple note.

 

  
_Just a spare  -M._

**Author's Note:**

> ...and excuse for him to buy Thursday a new pipe.


End file.
